Byzantium
by joban-disaster
Summary: Ana is dead; long live the queen. Oneshots. Post-season 3. Aramis/Anne.
1. Mulberry

Mulberry (mul′ber′ry): adj. "a dark purple color tinted with red"

* * *

 _And in your sleeping face_

 _I see the holy city,_

he leaves on her bed when he disappears in the morning.

* * *

 _Can't you see what you've done to me?_

 _My world has burst into color_

 _And you prick at my palms like the sweetest rose,_

he leaves on her bed when he disappears in the morning.

* * *

 _There's no way to forget you on this earth,_

he leaves on her bed when he disappears in the morning.

* * *

 _Every breath in is a love letter_

 _Every breath out a sigh of longing_

 _Every heartbeat yours,_

he leaves on her bed when he disappears in the morning.

* * *

 _I think I've loved you from the moment I met you,_

he leaves on her bed when he disappears in the morning.


	2. Alabaster

Alabaster (\ˈa-lə-ˌbas-tər\\): adj. "pale yellowish pink to yellowish gray"

* * *

Anne of Austria's been showered with jewels before by powerful men; been gifted gold and silver rope and exquisite robes; been wooed with presents of land and palaces; but she's never woken up to the scent of lilacs and flower chains strung across her windows like pretty, painted scarves before.

When her attendants come in to help her dress, she has them braid some of the blossoms into her hair. She wants to carry their colors with her all day.

* * *

"Thank you," she murmurs to her First Minister over lunch, aware of the voracious eyes of the court on them. "For the... gift."

He dips his head slightly, mouth curling up slightly and dark gaze sultry as he peeks up at her through infuriatingly long eyelashes. "Anything for my queen." As she reaches for a glass of wine, believing the conversation to be complete, he speaks again. "I do so love to see her in a good mood in the mornings." His voice drops an octave and she fights back the instinct to squirm under his hot stare. Her fingers itch to run over his smirking lips.

"I'm in quite a good mood," she gets out instead. "I had a very comfortable night."

" _Comfortable_ wasn't quite what I was going for," he purrs, and she flushes, glancing around to check for listening ears. His nearness intoxicates, though, and she finds herself leaning into his powerful, lithe frame despite her caution.

She can't help but respond to his insinuation. "Maybe I wasn't quite as comfortable as I could have been," she whispers into his ear. "I was very distracted from my rest, you know."

"Maybe you need more rest," Aramis hums, voice rumbling against the side of her neck. "Maybe right now would be a good time to retire for a _siesta_." He shoots her a small, private smile and takes her hand under the table. " _Ven conmigo, querida reina. Me permite a cuidarte_."

"Pushy man," she grumbles at him, then gasps when he purposefully scrapes his thumbnail over the pulse in her wrist. " _Vale, vale, me voy_!"

"Good." The marksman leans in one more time to speak into her ear, nearly caressing the shell of her ear with his lips. "Because I didn't get to make you at all as _un_ comfortable as I wanted to last night."

He smells like lilacs and freedom and she suddenly wants him so much she feels she might die. As gracefully as she can, she rises, allowing the diners time to stand with her as she sweeps regally from the room. "Come, Minister. We have much to discuss."

Their heels click softly on the tiled floors as they walk to her rooms. Ushering him inside, she gently pushes the doors shut behind them and turns to face him. "I—"

Before she can blink, his mouth is on hers and his hands are under her skirts and she's moaning in a manner completely inappropriate for a monarch, but he's doing that _thing_ with his tongue again and she can't even think straight—

"So, Majesty," he rasps into her ear again as his hands rise higher under her gown, "I take it you liked the flowers?"

She leans back to fix him with a sloe-eyed stare that has his knees turning to liquid. "Aramis?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up and kiss me."

"Yes, Majesty."

* * *

Anne of Austria's been offered exotic plants and animals in exchange for her favor; been flattered by soft silks and spices; had weapons drawn in her honor; but when she sees the man who spent his night weaving flowers so they were the first thing she'd see in the morning, she knows she'd give all the riches in the world to wake up by his side.


	3. Hoarfrost

Hoarfrost (/ˈhôrˌfrôst/): adj. "grayish-white"

* * *

They get caught together in the rain in the gardens once and when Aramis sees the queen looking up and laughing in delight, head thrown back to expose the glistening, supple curve of her throat, he forgets how to breathe.

The fat droplets run down Anne's face and collect in the hollows of her collarbones; the water soaks her hair and looses it from its complicated braids to hang heavy over her bare shoulders. She giggles harder as she tips her face up to catch water in her open mouth like a baby bird. "Aramis!" she gasps, overjoyed, "I'm so wet! I'm soaked!" She grabs at her skirts, twirling around like a Valencian dancer.

He can't help but grin at the honest joy shining on her face. She's been trapped inside for too long in the sweltering palace, and in the tempest she spins and laughs in careless, glittering ecstasy.

(Ana is lightning and fire and wind— she was made to be unleashed in all her glory, never designed to be trapped.)

"Aramis," she says again, and her voice burns into him, "I'm soaked." As her gaze laps against his skin, he realizes that the deluge has turned her white gown as sheer as silk and—oh, Lord in Heaven— he can trace the smooth planes of her torso with his eyes as easily as he could with his tongue, and—

"Dios, what you do to me," he whispers hoarsely, and in three long strides has his mouth devouring hers and his hands in her hair.

(She tastes like a singing wildness in his veins he hasn't felt since before Savoy.)

(Her sweetness replaces the taste of bitter frost on his tongue.)


	4. Mazarine

Mazarine (/ˌmazəˈriːn/): adj. "a deep, rich blue"

* * *

"What was your mother's maiden name?" Anne asks Aramis one morning as he traces lazy spirals over her collarbones with a slim fingertip.

Her lover hums thoughtfully. "Mazarino."

"Italian?" The queen looks at him oddly. She knows he was born in Alcalá, only a lazy day's ride northeast from the Madrid palace in which she'd spent her childhood.

"Her godfather raised her in Rome," he says, "as a member of the Colonna family. She changed it to make it more Spanish when she settled in Alcalá— _Mazarín_."

" _Mazarín_ ," Anne muses, and presses a kiss to the musketeer's uncontrollable mop of hair. "It suits you."


	5. Ocher

Ocher (/ˈōkər/): adj. "pale brownish-yellow"

* * *

They've been waiting to see the king of England for all of two minutes and someone's already trying to take Aramis' clothes off.

"I didn't do _anything_ ," he murmurs to an exasperated Queen Anne. "Everyone just likes to see me n—"

"Something will more than just _happen_ to you if you don't stop being _un pendejo_ and start being helpful _,"_ she snarls back. "I want to see the king _now_."

William Laud, the Bishop of Canterbury and one of the king's leading advisors, is unamused. "I said, disarm yourself before we enter the king's presence, musketeer."

Aramis looks up at the ceiling and shuffles his feet until Anne stares at him with irritated purple eyes and he starts to attention. "Right, yes." He unslings his musket from his back and hands it to a young guard before drawing his rapier, to the boy's sudden panic. Raising his eyebrows at the guard's twitchiness, he drops it into his arms too, catching his eye. "Take care of those. If you even leave a _smear_ on them, I'll maim you."

The soldier, barely out of his teens, swallows heavily as Aramis pushes in quick succession his pistol, main-gauche, and the trident daggers he carries at the small of his back at him as well. "Y-yes, sir."

The bishop glares at Aramis, who widens his eyes innocently. "More."

The marksman can't stop himself. "If you wanted me to undress, you could have just asked, Bishop."

Anne makes a tiny choking sound. He sees her fingers twitch as if to smack him and snickers inwardly. Ah, he loves the woman.

"The rest, musketeer," Laud growls. "You're not fooling anyone."

Rather put-out by the cool reception, Aramis stretches down to pull a dagger out of the back of each boot, then fiddles with his right heel until a pair of knives falls into his palm with a click. Reaching into his voluminous left shirt sleeve, he unstraps a slender blade sheathed on his forearm. He drops them all unceremoniously in a pile at the bishop's feet. "All done. Happy?"

The bishop narrows his eyes at the marksman but turns his attention to Anne instead. "Your Majesty, I believe we can proceed to the king's rooms now."

She inclines her head gracefully. "Very good." Tilting her head at Aramis, she murmurs, "Ready?"

He winks at her. "Ready." When she blinks at his good humor, he grins and drops his voice to a low rumble, running his fingers along the stiletto blades still sewn into the waistband of his trousers. "They're not as thorough in getting me out of my clothes as you are."

She flushes bright red and quickly whips back to face the bishop, clearing her throat. "Let us go. Now."

"As Your Majesty pleases." The bishop bows and sweeps from the room.

As Anne smoothly strides after him, Aramis catches the queen's attention with a brush of his hand against her exposed wrist. "Are you ready?"

Unexpectedly, his lover gifts him a glittering, predator's smirk that has his blood stirring. "If you think I'm not, you're not as good with seeing what's under my gowns as you think you are." She lightly touches her curls, piled delicately atop her head, and he sees the shine of metal buried in the blonde. _Sneaky minx_. "Be good."

"I always am!" he protests.

She rolls her eyes. "Shut up and walk, musketeer."

"Yes, Majesty."


End file.
